When we last saw my brother he was being ushered into a car by Cuntzilla and her mother. She needs a name … let’s see; we’ll go with The Mother of All Cunts – MAC, for short. So Cuntzilla and MAC whisked my brother away. But he started opening up more, and keeping secrets less.

I knew some disturbing things about my brother’s marriage even before his disappearance that night. For example, he was not allowed to use the same bathroom as Cuntzilla. She used the master bath; he used the bathroom down the hall. We knew that they lived somewhat separate lives, which some people can do successfully. In those successful relationships, however, one person may be playing golf while the other goes shopping with friends. In my brother’s case, she would be shopping with friends while he was washing the floors or trimming the bushes. My brother’s defense of this practice was, “She already finished her weekly chores. I have to do mine.” The fact that she worked one job, four days a week and he worked two jobs, six days a week apparently didn’t figure into the equation.

While those scenarios were mildly disconcerting, they were merely precursors to what we learned later. I could catalogue example upon example of unhappy circumstances, but in the interest of brevity I will relate the one that prompted me to suggest counseling, with or without Cuntzilla, to my brother. It’s not the worst of her behavior, but while her other actions primarily indicated selfishness, this performance demonstrated downright cruelty toward him.

My brother’s birthday followed soon after his coma-induced disappearance. Cuntzilla had a birthday dinner for my brother. Neither my sisters nor I were invited; she was angry with us since my sister called the cops. My brother’s friends weren’t invited; she had deemed them the “wrong sort of people” and driven them off long ago. The invitation list included her family and my parents. If she could’ve figured out how to cut them out, too, I’m sure she would have. Anyway, for my brother’s birthday, she gave him a reservation for the fifth Harry Potter book. Not the actual book, mind you, the reservation.

That’s not such a bad present. As I’ve mentioned, my brother is a huge sci-fi and fantasy geek. It’s just that HER birthday is a two – to – three-weekend extravaganza with several dinners and a definite bar set for presents. It’s not set low, I can assure you. So the discrepancy was a bit noticeable.

But here’s the bad part: she TOOK IT AWAY from him. Why? Because he would, “Spend all his time on the couch reading a book.” Yes, ladies, that’s the worst, isn’t it? When a man reads? You thought YOUR husband’s drinking, carousing, and gambling were bad? Kid stuff. Wait until he starts the REALLY bad habits, like reading.

I found out about this when my brother dropped off the Order of the Phoenix for me to read. (Yes, I am a sci-fi geek myself.) He had DISOBEYED Cuntzilla and purchased said book with a gift card given to him by her father (a nice man who is no longer married to MAC. She dumped him when he got colon cancer.) He begged me not to tell Cuntzilla about the book.

I was confused. “I thought she gave you the book,” I told my brother.

Yes, he admitted, but she took it away for the reasons stated. I asked if she had given him something else. She hadn’t. I asked him if he thought that was how someone who loved him would act. He said there were “complications.”

The complications turned out to be that she wanted him to make more money. Reading a book, while enjoyable, does not pay for Cuntzilla’s manicures and Kate Spade purses. That’s why his gift, or, more accurately, promise of a gift, was taken away. If he didn’t start making more money, she said, he’d have to move out.

Did he move out? We’ll find out in the next episode of The Cuntzilla Chronicles.